Post-Mortem
by Saphyr88
Summary: January, 1962. Cornwall, England. At the funeral of their dear colleague Nigel Griffin, James and Helen learn of an ominous force looming over his wife and daughter. Can the remaining members of the Five work out why Nigel died, and keep his family safe? Mystery-Thriller. In progress.
1. Chapter 1 - Sea Salt

**Cornwall, England. January, 1962**

Even the salt in the sea air couldn't stop it from freezing in the crisp winter sunlight. From whipping across their noses, and stirring up even the most slicked-back locks of the young students, and their long, thin ties. The mourners could hardly hear the words of the priest where they stood, lined up along that perilous coast line, dressed from head-to-toe in black – and the violent crash of the waves below seemed oddly fitting somehow. Fitting for a man whose life had been so tumultuous, so often thrust into conflict against his will, un-listened to, unheard against the louder voices which surrounded him.

Helen Magnus relished the sting of that harsh wind evaporating her tears, passing through the short veil that reached from her pillbox hat and over her eyes.

It hadn't hit her until the funeral, in the small Cornish chapel just behind them. As the coffin passed, carried down the centre of the aisle, the nub of grief which had been lodged in her throat since James' telegram had arrived in Old City, simply flooded out. James had insisted on being one of the pall bearers, of course, leaving her to shake at the unexpectedly overwhelming wave of grief alone, at first, until he'd done his duty. Then his hand had slipped warmly into hers – gently, empathetically, squeezing it as she tipped her head to meet his understanding gaze. He'd lost his own tears then. Shed them shakily, silently, entirely against his will.

Not for the first time they had been weak together – sharing in a loss more profound than either could truly express.

Nigel Griffin: comrade, colleague, friend. He'd have added some less admirable titles to that list just to cheer her up: disreputable, alcoholic, thief. He may well have been that last, but he had, at least, never been much of a liar or a cheat. Not to the people he cared for – and when he neglected them, he had never failed to wear his guilt about it firmly on his sleeve. Now she felt as though she had been the one to neglect _him_. They'd barely spoken in ten years, but for all they'd grown apart since he'd settled down and found that '_normal'_ life he'd been longing for, what was ten years next to the other sixty? They had known Griff longer than most people had been alive, and now – he was gone.

It had to happen sometime – that's not what hurt. The inevitability of death never stopped the sudden shock of knowing you'd never see that person again. Nor did it make it any easier when their old friend had left behind a loving wife and daughter. Nigel would never live to see little Anna grow up, get married, bear his grandchildren. Out of all of them, he had so deserved to have those things in his life, and now, all of that, would remain forever closed to him. For all his extended, unnaturally prolonged years, he had been taken too soon. The fates, as ever, had been unkind.

Now they were stood at his graveside, against the crashing sea of the island he'd always been prouder to hail from the further he'd been from its shores. It made sense: that he was happier living on Britain's most southerly edges, that he'd be buried here. Where the air was bracing, clear of the urban smoke of his upbringing, where the sea and sky combined into a vast horizon of possibilities. Here, where the terrain was more continental than the quaint English countryside of Surrey or Oxford – and France was only a short boat-ride away.

She was still mildly surprised that Nigel had left Jeanette's home-country, to be honest. They'd moved about a year ago, apparently, from the French village which he'd called home since 1947; back when he'd finally tracked down Miss Anaise and asked for her hand in marriage. Last Helen had heard they were still living in that beautiful farm house, with Nigel teaching chemistry at the nearest _lycée_. She'd had the privilege of spending a couple of weeks there with them the summer before she'd left for her new Sanctuary in Old City, before Anna had been born. He'd been so happy then. They both had.

Helen's journey down to Cornwall had been… quiet. Introspective. Tense. She'd flown from Old City to London as soon as she could, but an abnormal crisis had put her a flight behind, so there hadn't been any time to stop off at her old home. They'd come straight here. Helen wasn't sure whether or not she was, in fact, mildly relieved about that. Being in a car with James for six hours had been enough of a return to her past as it was, and until they were sat in the church, she hadn't truly appreciated just how much she'd run away from with her 'fresh start'. As if she could pretend her first hundred years hadn't happened and start again, that she wasn't a product of everything she had lived through – for good and bad.

It wasn't that James had been upset at her, or cold, or overly close since she'd gotten here – far from it. He had been as composed and respectful as ever, but things between them hadn't been… as easy since the failure of their romantic relationship. Fact of the matter was they still cared for each other, very deeply. They just didn't know how to show it anymore without making things… very awkward indeed.

Wasn't it telling? That it took the death of their friend for them to put all that aside for just a moment. To be one hundred per cent honest, open, and compassionate towards each other, without the shield of their work, without fear of regret, or revisiting the past.

They had _all_ grown so far apart.

God only knew what had become of John. She tried not to think about it – she really did. Dead or alive, neither would come without their own sadness, and she couldn't spend her life anticipating the day John Montague Druitt would return. All these years – she thought she'd been trying to live life without him, without dwelling on her mistakes and letting the past consume her, change her into a person she could no longer bare to look at. But she'd been wrong. She hadn't even realised she was doing it – waiting for him.

Waiting for the moment he would materialise in front of her and tear open old wounds afresh. As terrified of finding him half-dead at her feet, pleading for her forgiveness on his final breath, as of finding him clutching the body of someone she cared for, still-bleeding, eyeing her with that murderous passion.

It had been more than half a century since he'd become a murderer. Even now, here she was, waiting for him to show – to catch a glimpse of him lurking in the shadows, behind one of the wind-swept trees, silently watching the sad tableaux.

It seemed strange, even for John, that he wouldn't at least pay his respects. This was the first _genuine_ funeral for a member of the Five, the first of their unique number to fall into death's clutches. No matter Nigel's repulsion for what John did, and no doubt continued to do, in order to satisfy his demons, there had – at the start – been a genuine friendship.

Which is perhaps why Tesla's absence was all the more galling: he and Nigel had always been thick as thieves. If the damnable vampire hadn't literally fallen off the map in '45 she'd have considered his absence a matter for _concern_, but oh no. Knowing that arrogant ass he was probably too engrossed in his own '_genius_', holed up in a lab in some sequestered corner of the world, to even get the news, let alone show up to something so _minor_ as the funeral of one of his oldest friends. He hadn't even sent some kind of message, just to let them know he was actually still alive – and it's not as though getting something to them would've been _beyond_ his abilities, even if he _was_ afraid of the CIA or KGB trying to tug at his strings. Frankly, Helen would be _damned_ if she was going to seek him out when he couldn't even be bothered to say goodbye in the first place!

Typical, really… he'd always had an aversion to goodbyes. As if it were too final, too removed from possibility to be bearable. Magnus, however, saw it as a point of pride to face the finality of things, the consequences – to mark the end of something with as much respect as the start. No matter the nature of that ending. Whether tragedy or success.

Helen sighed beside James as Jeanette, clutching at her daughter's hand, stared numbly into the grave. Watching the first handfuls of earth scattered upon the lowered coffin lid. The poor girl was only seven… and though the memory was a distant one, Helen knew what it was to lose a parent. Knew what it was to stand at a grave, terrified of putting one foot wrong. Of misbehaving, and inducing the wrath of adults so clearly clinging onto their composure with the barest grip. Anna's wide eyes looked around her nervously, uncertain of what it all meant, of what she was feeling, of what she could sense in the people around her. Her mother was too composed, too still, to be reachable: a determined set to the woman's lips that reminded Magnus so strongly of their first encounter in Normandy that, despite fifteen years of lines gracing the corners of her face, it was like looking at a ghost.

When the priest concluded, as the mourners started to talk amongst themselves and drift towards the wake being held in the village pub, Helen headed straight for her. The widow stood like an island in a sea of people, muttering out polite responses to the few offering their condolences. She looked as if she couldn't wait for every single one of them to leave her alone, until she saw Helen, and it was replaced by a wry, knowing smile which was no less bitter.

"Helen."

"Jeanette," she didn't smile, exactly, but she let sympathy fill her features until the corners of her lips lifted meekly. "Et cela doit être la petite Anna?"

Anna stood dumbstruck, not only at the fact that this stranger knew her name, but equally by the fact that she'd asked in _French_.

"Dites bonjour au Dr Magnus Anna," Jeanette cajoled.

"Mais Maman, _qui_ est-elle?" the girl whispered.

Magnus smiled patiently as the mother started to show some annoyance.

"It's alright Anna," the older woman said, leaning down a little and offering a gloved hand to the girl, "I used to work with your father – a… _very_ long time ago."

The girl decided it was okay to shake the lady's hand and smiled, for the first time since Helen had clapped eyes on her. The sight of those little dimples brought a light into Magnus' expression, but as she straightened back up, the joy disappeared into deep concern for the woman in front of her.

"I know," Jeanette insisted, before Magnus could even utter a word of condolence. The Frenchwoman sighed, trying to start again but clearly uncomfortable with the constant hollow words that had surrounded her, and done nothing to ease her grief, "Thank you… for… coming."

Helen nodded, pressing her lips together, silently assessing her body language. "If you, or Anna, need anything, anything at all, we're… we're here for you." She unclasped her handbag, pulling out a card before holding Jeanette's gaze with absolute sincerity. She wished she knew her well enough to extend a comforting hand to her arm, but there were just too many years of absence between them for that, "Just call."

For some reason Jeanette's expression hardened as she handed her the business card, complete with her new address and telephone number.

"Of course," Mrs Griffin's tone was brusque, embattled, as if the suggestion was neither believed, nor sufficient, nor had any idea of what she was going through – which was odd. Considering Jeanette was not at all ignorant of what she did, or of the Sanctuary network, or of her husband's abnormality… or even a passing understanding of Magnus' association with Druitt. Griffin had trusted her with it all.

"Jeanette…" she started gently, holding her fiery gaze, "promise me you won't hesitate." She looked for assurance there, and all she got was the overwhelming sense that something was very wrong. "I know how difficult it can be," she continued, a little softer, "when someone's taken from you, so suddenly-"

"Ha!" She finally broke under a hushed exhale of breath, switching to a rapid, desperate French, "I'm supposed to believe that- that Nigel died of natural causes, of a heart attack?! I don't think so." Her eyes scanned over Helen's shoulders, as if looking for danger, for sharpened eavesdroppers, and when she whispered, she did so with all the ferocity of her conviction, "_Nigel was murdered_."

The accusation stunned Helen into complete silence, her mouth moving as if between words as she struggled to process it. Jeanette was already anticipating a string of mollifying reassurances, some insinuation that she was being paranoid. Which was why this was the first time she'd uttered the words.

"What?" Was all Magnus could manage to stop Jeanette from wandering off in a daze of fear and desperation.

She span on Helen – suddenly focused and concentrated as if in the grip of madness – the little girl still clinging to her hand almost forgotten as she urged, "You heard what I said."

It was a challenge. For the great Helen Magnus, leader of the Sanctuary Network, to put her money where her mouth was: to believe in the unbelievable. Helen wasn't about to baulk.

"I heard what you said, _yes_," she continued confidentially in French, "but I don't understand it. What makes you think-?" Jeanette scoffed, and Helen interrupted before she could throw up her defences. "I know you're not lying Jeanette," she countered evenly, dropping back into English. "You're an intelligent woman… or Nigel would've never loved you."

The mention of him crumpled his wife's features, the rise of sadness in her throat as she struggled to hold it all in, and hide her face from the departing crowd. She breathed in shakily, then out. It was almost cruel, Helen knew, but she needed Jeanette to _hear_ her. To trust her.

"Please, tell me what happened."

Jeanette's eyes lingered over her shoulder and Helen didn't need to look – though she did anyway. James was there, watching astutely, catching enough with his keen eyes to register something was wrong. He had come over to investigate.

"Please," she urged again, gently taking Jeanette's spare hand in her own.

Mrs Griffin shook her head, wrapping an arm around the girl at her legs as if she wished she had the strength to carry her away. She couldn't go into detail around her child, and still, as her fingers drew through the hair upon her daughter's crown, she could suffer in silence no longer.

"He was behaving… strange. Secretive. He'd never been that way. Keeping things from _me_... then before I could even ask he-" She stopped mid-sentence, tears rolling down her cheeks, and Helen lost all self-consciousness, all sense of awkwardness, to pull her into a generous hug.

"It's okay," she hushed her, feeling her eyes well up, "It's okay."

James' attention, however, was on the little one. He smiled at the way her little mouth hung open, just a little, like Griffin's always had when he was non-plussed – but he wasn't focused on that. More on the way her mother had been so very protective. Murder or no, Jeanette clearly feared that they had become the targets of some malevolent force, and if Nigel's gifts had been hereditary… it was not too far-fetched to believe that they had.

"Might I suggest," James hazarded softly as the women finally parted, and Jeanette, though red-eyed and bleary, rediscovered her poise. "…that you and Anna stay with us for a few days, at the Sanctuary – to be safe? Just while we investigate."

Mid-way through wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Jeanette shook her head and pulled away from Helen's support, as if she'd been asked to spend the night in a prison cell for her own safety. Like an animal desperate to avoid being trapped, even if it meant bleeding to death in the wild. She met his warm, reassuring gaze with an adamant, negative shake, "Oh no." She insisted definitively, "Merci," the words came out abrupt and cold, even though she meant it, "but _we_ are leaving." There was a fine tremble in her pale skin, and a terrible finality to her words. Here, again, was the Resistance leader they had met. Prepared to do what was necessary to survive. She took in a deep breath, tipping her chin defensively, "After today… you will not see us again."

Helen was at a loss, she wanted to argue with her, but it was hard to muster the words in the face of that determination, that particular brand of stubbornness. Magnus had worn it often enough herself.

Which is perhaps why James spoke up unreservedly: "Jeanette," he sighed, eying her with a restrained concern, keeping his voice as low and hushed as possible as he attempted to reason with her. "Running will only lead to _more_ running; it won't give you any answers. What kind of life is that-"

"_A life_," she growled, throwing her arm up angrily, "rather than being killed in the night by some invisible enemy." She flinched at the words, "I do not _care_ what you think, what you _say_, Dr Watson. I must do, what is best – _for __my__ daughter_. She's…" her voice became vulnerable at the realisation, "she's all I have." Jeanette looked very ready to put an end to the conversation, gathering herself, and Anna, in order to leave.

Helen and James were simply too stunned by the assertion to intercede – a rarity, in those who had lives so long.

"It is better if we… if _we_ are the ones to disappear." She looked up to them again, saddened by the thought, and still trying to hold herself back. "But thank you – I mean it – for coming. I know it…" she took a shaky breath, her accent thickening, "I know it would have meant a lot to him."

The words on Helen's tongue wouldn't come out – she wanted to urge Jeanette to rethink. Remind her that Anna might well develop some form of abnormality, that she would need help learning to live with it, that hiding wouldn't change the fact – but the force of Jeanette's stare would brook no argument.

"Mrs Griffin I _cannot_ advise-"

"Please," she cut James off with narrowed eyes, "if you were ever truly Nigel's friends, respect my wishes." She begged through those threatening tears, and Magnus found herself reaching out to take her arm in reassurance, "_Please_ do not follow us. Do not try and find us." She retracted her arm, with a steadying breath, and a more assertive nod as she started to shuffle away, "Just find the _bastards_ that did this."

They both watched in shock as Jeanette led Anna away, lingering on the sight of them as they meandered through the headstones.

Helen looked to James, at a loss, noting the raised eyebrow of concern, the same determination in his eyes too. Jeanette could run all she liked, the Sanctuary's doors were always open to them, but the Griffins wouldn't be running for long if they didn't find the people hunting them. Whatever these phantom pursuers were after – they had to stop them. They had to get to the truth.

* * *

**Author's Note**: So... this being Sanctuary, I figured… Nigel couldn't have just died of old age or anything. I mean, he was fit as a fiddle in the 1940s right? So how come he died in the 1960s hmmmmm? And so we begin our little foray into some non-Tesleny-fiction. Expect plenty of nods to cannon, and a little headcannon thrown in for good measure – this is all compatible with my Helen & Tesla adventures. Druitt and Tesla will both appear a little later into the story (I can't wait to write that bit, it's gonna be fun) – so this is a Five story and will remain Rated T throughout (unless I get really violent). Hope you enjoy!

The cover picture uses the pic of a lovely Cornish chapel by the sea that I found on Pinterest, and the rest was pinched from the Second episode, Normandy, and Revelations Part II. :)

Apologies if the French is icky - I ran it through Translate... which you can do if you're so desperate to find out what they're saying! :P

**DISCLAIMER**: I do not own, nor claim to own these characters or this fictional world owned by the creators/producers of the SyFy series Sanctuary. I am not making any profit from this, and I hope I'm not bringing anyone or anything into disrepute! This fic is a testament to my enduring love for the series and its endless epicocity!


	2. Chapter 2 - Autopsy

Jeanette and Anna no doubt headed to the Wake, to avoid raising any suspicion of their imminent departure. Helen and James, however, chose to avoid the inevitable awkward questions in favour of a moment in the graveyard, watching the waves roll in as they said goodbye to their friend. The sun was already starting to set, its beams creating golden halos in the sea, around the cold clouds. It made their course of action clear – following the Griffins wouldn't help them, indeed it might give the supposed pursuers a lead on their whereabouts. Jeanette had been a skilled Resistance leader. Anna was in more than capable hands when it came to evading detection, and frankly the only other option – tying them up and imprisoning them at the Sanctuary for their own safety – was unconscionable. The only way they could help was, as Jeanette had challenged, to find out how and why Nigel had died – to find _who_ it was striking fear into their hearts.

Magnus and Watson managed to find an inn with two rooms for the night in a small town a few miles further inland. Helen had chuffed at the name of it – _The Five Bells_ – an apt title, with their thoughts still on their fallen friend.

Friendship was precisely why, after unpacking her singular suitcase, she'd stolen through the creaking oak corridor to knock on James' door.

"Yes?" That astute, querying tone was loud through the wood.

"James?" her voice was much softer, but no less commanding for that, "It's me."

She could hear him move, limping still from that war wound, as the door swung open and he raised those eagle-eyes to meet hers. "Helen," he greeted simply, not quite moving out of her way with the freedom she was used to.

Magnus smiled amicably, carefully, "I thought we might…" she started to gesture and stopped, bringing her hand back with a sudden bout of restraint, and unconsciously worrying her fingers against her stomach. She cleared her throat subtly before fixing her gaze back to his – all hope and sincerity, "go over the report together."

He eyed her with the slightest smile – same old Helen. Using that façade of practicality and necessity to keep her emotions firmly guarded, to keep the people who loved her close, but never close enough. Couldn't come over for a brandy and consolation, even of the platonic kind. No, it had to be for the coroner's report they'd obtained en route. To go over the next great abnormal mystery – avert the next major crisis. Sometimes he wondered if she was truly capable of taking a holiday… even _if_ the future of the world depended on it.

In this instance, however, James could hardly throw stones. Mrs Griffin's accusations were all he'd been able to think about since the graveyard, and he'd missed Helen, a lot, the last few years. It would've been childish to deny that her company on this case was anything other than welcome.

"Hmm," he began as if considering it, that ironic tone of his, the unrelenting, chiding smile giving him away, "well they do say two heads together can be better than one."

She seemed taken aback, eying him with amused disbelief, as if to make sure he really _had_ just referenced what she thought he had, "Doris Day?"

He stepped out of the way of the door, completely ignoring the comment before she could tease him for it, "Best not stand on my doorstep all night Helen – tongues will, undoubtedly, _wag_."

"They'll wag anyway won't they?" she muttered as he closed the door behind her.

When he didn't respond she turned back, he was analysing her, with those beady, narrowed eyes, intrigued by what he'd detected in her tone.

"What?" she asked self-consciously, wondering what she'd done to become the object of study this time, what had induced such a concerned expression.

"I didn't think you cared," he stated matter-of-factly, "– water off a duck's back and all that?"

"I don't," she reiterated, a hardened edge to her tone as she understood what he was getting at. Realising too late that she sounded more than just a little contrary, "At least," she sighed. Trying to explain this to a man like James – who never shared physical intimacy without some kind of meaningful emotional bond – was difficult. "I don't care what they _think_ they know, or what they say to other people …" She gestured widely as she spoke, heading over to the chest of draws where the report was resting on top, "really it's none of their _damn_ business. I simply… do not care for the assumptions they make from such petty gossip."

There had been a member of the UN, just over a year ago… a high-flier, well placed to assist the Sanctuary Network in gaining a much-needed foothold in the Soviet Union – Grozny to be precise. Cairo had been struggling to deal with the abnormal cases in their growing urban populations, let alone the Saharan Desert, let alone the Middle East – a constant hotbed of violence. They'd been getting increasing demand further north of the Holy Lands, and Berlin had demands on it from across the Iron Curtain too. Moscow was the long term goal but, in the case of the USSR, it was _all_ baby steps. With Sanctuaries in both America and its allies, it was going to be a tough sell. So Helen had approached Mr Zelmanof, and spent some time with him in private, and as it happens he was a very intelligent, very attractive man and _yes_, they'd slept together. Was it a crime? No. Had she intended to avoid it so as not to be accused of sleeping around to get her own way? Yes. But he'd been… a breath of fresh air in her rather restrained and uneventful love life.

Sadly, not only her protégé, but one of the junior members of the New York Sanctuary, had gone to find her at an absurdly early hour for some abnormal crisis. They saw her retreating to her room in last night's clothes, put two and three together, and promptly came up with five. It's not like Bob was judging her – if anything, she rather suspected she'd gone up in his esteem – but the young man was a terrible gossip. Next thing you know, she hears it second hand from the Head of the Tokyo Sanctuary, and is forced to defend her position as Head of the Network because she _dared_ to take a lover out of wedlock.

Really, you'd have thought the world had moved on just a little, but it seemed even some of the most intelligent, honest and hard-working people out there could still manage some pretty impressive bigotry when it came to the woman in charge. If it had been James and some UN Secretary they'd have all congratulated him for his ingenuity in seducing a woman on the inside… not that the thought was any less mercenary, but, being a woman, in a man's world, the rumours had somewhat mutated her reputation. No more just the respectable Doctor, abnormal expert and formidable war hero, but now too, a manipulative whore content to use sex for political gain.

It had been a while now, since that awkward telephone conference, and for the most part they'd all gotten back to business as usual. They'd even had the go ahead to open a small outpost in Grozny for a six month trial. Helen, however, had been on guard ever since, determined to avoid a repeat, and pissed off at the fact that she even had to worry about the sexual politics at all. She'd spent _decades_ of her former years maintaining her honour – even when she'd allowed herself to besmirch it she'd always been careful – and now, she was over a hundred years old, and _still_ being held to the same _ridiculous_ code?!

James could see the frustration of it rolling from every inch of her, the way she shook her head and sighed. The way she gripped the report, turning pages sharply as she carried it over to the singular comfy chair. It had always been difficult for Helen to accept, that women were held to different standards than men; particularly when it was thrown in the path of what she wanted.

He watched sagely, coming to sit closer – on the nearest edge of the bed. It's not that he blamed her, he didn't, but he _had_ been particularly surprised to hear she'd been caught out, and even… a little jealous. Just more proof that her world continued to turn, whereas his… his felt as if it'd been stuck on pause for years. A life on hold. Helen leaving had been just the tip of the iceberg, forcing him to realise that he'd been distracting himself, for a very long time. From what? Old age, he suspected. The inevitability of losing people, of those final goodbyes. Perhaps that's why he had renewed his search for John.

It was ironic, he supposed. That after years of impressing upon Helen that no good could come of such a venture, that the Ripper was beyond their help, _he_ was _now_ embarking upon his own quest for the man who had destroyed their younger selves. He told himself it was to see justice done: but in truth, in his darkest moments he could even admit, it was more to assuage the growing sense of loneliness.

There had been a flicker, in that French bunker, of the man he'd once known. That thirst for killing cowed by the even greater evil of National Socialism – perhaps a part of him realised then what Helen had seen all these years. That brief, fleeting glimpse of hope that he _could_ be saved.

Helen was looking at him, mouth paused. She'd been about to speak, until she caught sight of the emotional cogs engaging behind the surface, felt the concern for where those thoughts were taking him – and then everything froze. Cautiously she waited for what might lay behind it: anger, sadness, jealousy, loneliness? Part of her wanted to ask. The other knew better than to confront James Watson with nothing but intuition and surmise, especially when it involved something so personal. Indeed, when she could feel his attentions back in the here and now, she couldn't help but feel a little relieved that they need not address it at all.

"Did you have chance to read it yet?" she asked.

"Cover to cover," he smiled.

Helen beamed back – it was only a couple of pages long.

"They clearly had no reason to suspect foul play." He surmised, "Jeanette must have been far too suspicious of the authorities to even suggest it so… why would they?"

Helen nodded, giving a 'hmm' of consideration at the verdict – Natural Causes, Cardiac Arrest, "He'd seen his doctor less than a week before, high blood pressure, hardening arteries… I must admit with this history I wouldn't have been looking for foul play either."

James looked as if he might not entirely agree, "Yes, but you would have done a thorough check of what was presented to you... forgive me if I don't trust the local surgeons to be as diligent."

She looked at him, realising what he was saying, "You mean they're likely to have missed something subtle. A discolouration… or needle mark?"

"If Jeanette _is_ right – and there's still no proof either way that she is – whoever did this is a professional." He looked out into the invisible distance, thinking it through, then back to her, "The subtlety of it. They used his poor health against him, agitated his condition and let nature do the rest."

"But _how_ did they administer the agitator?"

He narrowed his eyes again, visualising the scene as he slowly, methodically repeated the events aloud, "Nigel was found in the garden, in broad daylight – by Jeanette. They wouldn't want to risk being seen, not by the Griffins, or any nosy neighbours, otherwise they'd ruin the illusion."

"Which rules out injection, surely," she reasoned. "The effects would've been almost instantaneous – whether its insulin, or cyanide, or any poison injected into the blood – they wouldn't have had time to be sure of getting away undetected."

"Precisely," Watson stood, starting to pace the floor, "he'd have to ingest it. And it would have to be prepared, waiting for him – he died on the scene, at 3pm."

Helen read over the abbreviation of Jeanette's statement again, "He was gardening."

"Physical exertion – so if he had extraordinarily high blood pressure-"

"It could tip him over the edge."

Suddenly he stopped pacing, "It was the weekend, correct?"

"Yes, a Saturday."

"When have you ever known Nigel not to have a drink, of some sort, on a day off?"

Her instant smile at the thought twisted painfully, "Boozy type, old Griffin."

James seemed to register the sentimental tone rather belatedly – the meaning behind it slowing his mental pursuit and distracting him.

"So…" she surmised before he could, shaking aside her emotions, "some sort of pain killer, in his drink?"

"It's the most likely explanation, yes," James responded soberly, watching the way she'd drawn into herself, braced for an emotion she didn't want to share. "The bottle would look sealed; easy enough to plant it. It would be harmless to everyone else. They could have been planting them for… weeks."

She shook her head and breathed steadily, as if she were being a foolish girl, and James didn't know what to do. Gone were the days he'd have walked over and embraced her, or the days he'd have pretended, for propriety's sake, not to have impugned upon her privacy – or even the times he'd have placed a hand upon her shoulder, with a softly-spoken temptation to look at something scientifically wondrous and distracting.

Eventually he went to sit next to her, and simply took her hand. She laughed a little, cracked by the unshed tears, in an attempt to put off any kind of sympathy. Even so, she was squeezing his hand right back.

"Typical really, I always said it would be the death of him," she gasped, reigning in the bubble of emotion, and smiling through it. "Never meant it quite like that."

Watson couldn't help but be affected, her smiling sadness bringing out his own as if searching for a playmate. He tried not to think about Nigel, grinning over a pint like he always did. The pubs – like the man himself – had barely changed in all those years. So many fond memories: their boys' night out in Oxford, God he'd almost forgotten. Tesla had been so high and mighty until that singular drinking challenge knocked him clean out. He'd never seen John _snigger_ so much in all his life. Nigel had been so very good at that – bringing them together. Not just for a scientific challenge, or some crisis, or love – just as friends, having a good time.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," he offered.

She seemed to gain enough strength to brush aside such platitudes, and remove her hand from his, "Of course we will. We owe him that. We owe Jeanette and Anna that."

"I'll…" he cleared his throat, slowly taking his arms back into his own space and standing up, "I'll call in with the Sanctuary, let them know we'll be down here another day. We can go over to their house – if he _was…_ murdered, there'll be clues. If not – then there'll be clues as to why Jeanette thought he was, at least."

"You can't really believe she's lying James?"

"No. I believe _she_ believes it to be the truth, but we must remain…"

"Impartial?" she was mocking him, ever so slightly, with the absurdity of such a concept in a case which involved a friend and colleague as important to them as Nigel.

"We're in the dark here Helen. Completely in the dark. Let's not start taking leaps of faith until we have enough light to see the ledge, hmm?"

**Author's Note**: HUGE thanks to **AConstanceC** and **The Watch Stander** for following (and one fave-ing) this fic already! How else am I supposed to know you're interested? The ego-stroking is appreciated as ever :D Let me know if you think I'm going OOC, what you liked/didn't like about nods to cannon and head-cannon, or what you're thoughts are about the thickening plot!


	3. Chapter 3 - Pallor

The waves were many miles away but the wind carried the sound of them across the open heath regardless. It battered harmlessly against Helen's bedroom window, rattling its ancient frame with the same regularity as the clock, ticking on the mantelpiece, as she settled down to sleep. There was a superstitious air about the building once the lights were off, the sort of feeling Helen usually ascribed to some misunderstood abnormal presence, but she had been keeping an eye out for those. No, in this instance, she rather suspected it was the presence of a more psychological kind. Her own ghosts come to haunt her.

Perhaps it was the cold temperature of the room. Just like how they always used to be in the night, before they were properly heated, and the windows properly fitted. Maybe it was the scent of dried oak, of damp granite, the carbonised flavours of smoke that had passed through from cigarettes and cigars, the damp coals on the fire. It smelt of the past. As if the electrics here were just a passing fancy, the accoutrements of 20th century living rude outsiders, in a place that had stood for centuries before indoor bathrooms and radios were considered necessities.

She half-expected to turn against her pillow and open her eye to a pale white projection of her friend, ominously pointing towards the window as if he were Hamlet's father, come to urge her vengeance. Griffin would have laughed at her for that. As if he would ever be so mordant, even in death. The dramatics, he would've reminded her, were Tesla's department.

In fact, Nigel had always been the most humble out of all of them. There had been times when she had hated the thought of trudging through the decades, perhaps centuries to come, but by and large she had revelled in her apparent immortality – at the opportunities it presented, at the fact that she could still perish and therefore, still had reason to fight for survival, to live. She certainly did not regret _surviving_ her first century. The world, for all its flaws, was still changing, and she always wanted to see what would come next.

Tesla, well, he had all-but flaunted the fact that he could live forever youthful, at any opportunity. Just another claim to support his own sense of superiority. Another blessing from his ancestors, towards whom he looked with such absurd reverence.

James had clawed and fought for it, his own artificial longevity. It was after his brush with an unusual tropical disease during an investigation in Mumbai. He'd made a full recovery, but the feeling of mortality, of age creeping up on him had lingered. As had the revelation that the dose of Helen's blood, which had helped in stabilising his abnormality in the immediate aftermath of their _sanguine vampiris_ experiment, and extended his middle-age, was starting to wear off.

They'd tried injecting him again with her extraordinary vitae but his body had rejected it like some kind of infection. She'd spent weeks helping him, searching for an answer. All the while he'd grown more fixated, more focused, until he wasn't even getting dressed in the mornings, barely remembering to shave, or eat, or bathe. She hadn't had the courage to ask him why he was so afraid, to get him to talk. It's not like she didn't already know what he was thinking – that they would all live on. That _she_ would live on, without him. That they would watch him grow old, and infirm, and miserable. Worse still, the horrific prospect of his brilliant mind falling prey to dementia and senility.

So she had given him all her silent support, bringing him tea and sympathy, knowing he would be impossible to dissuade and yet just as concerned that he make peace with what seemed, medically speaking, unattainable now. Then, one day, he'd finally left the house for a case, and when he'd come back, exhilarated by the subtlety of the criminal's mechanical technique, he'd been like a man possessed. James later described it to her as seeing all the parts come together before his eyes: the formulae, the cogs and wheels and switches, written out as if on a screen. So the contraption now strapped permanently to his chest, his life-support, had been born.

John, meanwhile, had never asked for eternity, though Helen was sure he enjoyed the fact that he could continue his vendettas, their dance, over the decades. He probably thought it romantic, that time had been unable to kill their connection, their attraction to one another. If he hadn't become the source of such shame, such grief, she would have agreed – but time hadn't stopped him from killing, hadn't saved either of them from the guilt. Logically she knew she had been foolish to give him her blood again, but it had been at a time when there was still hope. She had been so sure that a larger, more compact dose of what had first alleviated his symptoms might abate his demons forever.

As before, it had proved only a temporary solution. It wasn't long before his madness had returned… and broke her heart anew.

She had often speculated on how long that dose might last him. How long it might be before he beat upon her door again, drawn in the face like a cancer patient and suffering continual cramps, only able to relieve the nauseating noise within his mind in the kill, in the shedding of innocent blood. That he would seek her out for that reprieve, that life-extension, she had no doubt… and she had given what she would do that day a great deal of thought.

No, Nigel had been the only one to entirely eschew it, to wean himself from the possibility of eternity and pass up the chance to live forever – and she would never forget the day, the evening he had.

0 0

"_Helen?"_

_Nigel appeared around her office door and she smiled instantly, trying to relieve the concerned look on his face – to raise that bottom lip of his from where it hung, perplexed._

"_James said you were lookin' for me?"_

"_Yes."_

_He closed the door and started for her desk._

"_Oh, no. Please… take a seat by the fire Nigel," She stopped what she was doing, pointing to the two chairs at the hearth. Different upholstery – same seats as had been there since King Edward sat on the throne. He looked at them gingerly, choosing the one furthest from the desk – sensing that the nearer one would be hers._

_He didn't look comfortable there, in the rigid seat. He never did. It was too much of a cross between a College Warden's office and a doctor's surgery – neither places he much cared for. Sometimes Helen wondered if she shouldn't invest in something more comfortable, like a sofa, because he always looked like he was half-way out of the chair before she'd so much as offered him a drink. Even so, time after time he would take the proffered libation, and eventually the alcoholic tonic would ease him into forgetting his surroundings. But this was certainly not Nigel's natural habitat. _

_Really, she should have had this conversation in the lab, or the library, or even the pub, where he might've felt more at ease, but… she supposed she had leaned towards her own safe place, for a conversation which would be far from easy. _

_She passed him his accepted brandy, settling beside him and leaning back into the taste of her own glass. She took a moment, enjoying the warmth from the flames in the grate before she said her piece._

"_Mmm, that's good stuff Helen. Where you been hidin' it?"_

_She returned his cheek with a smirk, "My secret stash, of course."_

_He chuckled, taking another sip. "Go on then, what's so important that you've rolled out the royal treatment?" he emphasised the glass in his hand as he spoke, eying her plainly so that she knew not to play this down._

_She sighed, "Nigel… you know the blood work we ran the other day?"_

"_W'at the 'routine check-up' you insisted on?"_

_From the expression on his face he had seen right through her attempt at subtlety. _

"_Yes, I must admit I really had only one purpose in mind at the time. A theory, really."_

_Griffin made an ungracious sound through his smile, "Doctor Magnus with an ulterior motive?" He ribbed her sarcastically, "Never would've guessed love."_

_Her lips pressed together reflexively as she smiled cautiously back, her hands meeting closer to her lap as she searched his eyes. "You remember the effect __my__ blood had on you, and John, and James?"_

"_Not likely to forget it… why?" he asked, even though he suspected he already knew. He needed to hear her say it._

"_It's starting to wear off on you Nigel," she held his gaze with complete honesty, stating the fact clean and simple, as if it were a terminal diagnosis. "Like it did on James. Slowly but surely."_

_Griff wasn't sure how to react to that. He looked away from her – what did that really mean to him anyway? Death had to come for them all sometime, didn't it? He could be run over by a bus tomorrow – made no bloody difference really._

"_We can, try the serum I gave John… the stronger one. It might work on you. You might not even need James'-" she stopped there, realising he was holding up a hand to stop her… and maybe she already understood the reason why. "That is… if you want to."_

_He was shaking his head. So grave. So unlike his usual sunny disposition. Nigel's expressions were like a barometer, one could always tell just how serious something was by how grimly his mouth was set. Then came the familiar half-smile, as if he could tell his sincerity was starting to unnerve her, "Nah. I'm alright Helen. Honest."_

"_Are you sure?" she asked with concern. Slightly surprised, in all honesty. The thought of one of them not living as long as the rest surprisingly alien, surprisingly shocking to her._

"_I was alright with it when it was an accident, a side effect, but really…" he sighed, looking her straight in the eye, "who are we to live forever?"_

_It had been a long, long time since she and Nigel Griffin had sat and chatted about the deep questions of the universe. Once they'd all started down their own paths he'd reverted to the safety of humour when he was around them, and a careful scepticism. Ever keen to avoid becoming drawn into another situation where he'd be exploited for unethical ends. Really though, his relationship with her had changed much sooner than that, when she and John had gotten serious – when she was no longer just a friend, but soon to be someone's wife. It had been an unconscious change, one borne of the norms of the time rather than unrequited feelings. She hadn't realised at the time, but she missed the batting back and forth of ideas, of philosophies: Nigel's had always sounded so fair, so even handed. He'd never failed to point out the flaws in Nikola's grandiose suggestions, or the limitations of her own, more subtle ones, seeing all the sides to the matter with unnerving perception. James did that too, but he was so much more focused on the practical, on the facts – Nigel's creativity, his intuition allowed you to see the answers for yourself, rather than be lectured to on the dots, and how they all connected together._

_He was right, of course. They had not been born this way. It was… unnatural._

"_Seems a bit greedy really." He continued, "I mean, we should be satisfied with the one life God gave us right? What is there worth doing in ten lives that you couldn't do in one?"_

_She listened, hearing the truth in it with a wistful smile. That to desire more, to seek out eternity showed only a lack of faith in life, in what one could achieve within it._

"_I mean, not that you can help it or anythin' but… if you could? Helen, would you? Would you __**choose**__ to see everyone you love grow old and die around you?"_

_Her eyes gave her away – no. No she would not. And until the blood had started to shorten on them, until they'd all started to drift from her life, until she had come to meet, and share so much with colleagues decades younger… she had never thought that she would. The Five had been the ones: the one surety against her having to watch all the world grow old and die. No matter how many she had to bury, she had always been so sure that she'd have __**them**__ and now… Nikola had walked out on them without a word, John was God knows where, probably still killing, possibly dead himself – and in that Nazi bunker a simple flick of the switch, a turn of the dial, had forced her to watch James age before her eyes. Truth was, The Five was a tentative myth she'd been clinging to; a crutch to avoid staring into the reality of her future – a loneliness she had been putting off for decades._

"_Tesla wouldn't get it," Nigel continued, smirking broadly at the thought of Nikola's bombastic rebuttal of the idea that living forever was a bad idea, "but he's not like us Helen. He's always kept everyone at arm's length. Manages just fine being on his own."_

_Helen watched the fire crackle, not entirely sure Griffin was right on that account. There was a madness, a desperation, about Nikola's determination to be independent of his emotions that belied a greater humanity than most would credit him with. Conversely, she had always found herself much more able to cope with isolation than anyone who'd known her in her young adulthood might've imagined. She had, after all, been a lonely only child._

"_And James..." he threw her a look, thinking better of what he was about to say. That Watson was doing it for her benefit was only partially true. He had unfinished business with Druitt, and a stubborn streak a mile long... "He does a pretty good job of keeping people at arm's length too," he settled on, exhaling in a heavy breath. "I've had a good run. Christ I've lived ninety years ain't I? Another ten and I'll be getting a Birthday Card from His Majesty."_

_She scoffed at that, as he gulped a large sip of brandy._

"_Mm, and," he added, "how many people get to their ninetieth birthday with a fit an' able body? Not bad going really."_

_She smiled – Nigel Griffin, ever a glass half-full, "And you're certain?" she felt the need to double check, though why, she wasn't sure: "I can't be certain how this will pan out," she warned, "you might catch up with your actual age sooner than you think."_

_He shrugged, looking at his feet as if to avoid her candour, "I'll risk it." He looked up to her, "Didn't much fancy watching Jeanette get old __without__ me anyway."_

_Ah, Helen thought to herself, now it all became clear. Usually she'd have shown some kind of concern as to Nigel taking such a big decision on the basis of a girl he liked – but Jeanette Anaise was different. _

_They'd lost contact after the war; Nigel had been caught up in a situation involving die-hard Nazis who wouldn't accept the surrender, a traitorous Resistance leader, and the so-called Monuments Men. Frankly Jeanette would've been forgiven for thinking he'd died. He'd needed her to believe it anyway, to get the upper hand on the enemy, and the thought had cut right through him, plagued him to this day. The way he'd spoken just now, however… something had changed._

"_You've found her?" Magnus queried, intrigued._

_He positively beamed, the light in his eyes unmistakable as he nodded._

"_Nigel, that's fantastic news!"_

Within the month, he'd been on the continent with Jeanette. Within the year they were married, and Nigel Griffin had never looked back.

* * *

**Author's Note**: AConstanceC – you know what they say with fan-fic/art. If you don't see it, write/draw it! :) I always thought it a disservice that Helen and James kinda mention Griffin's death in a throwaway line, but we've seen Helen do that before – make something pretty close to her past, her emotions, sound so distant and official (I'm recalling her reaction to the SOS signal coming through in Trail of Blood. I love how her reaction wasn't – OMG Nikola's sending us a message, it was 'My, my, my – blast from the past. Here's a long-wded story that totally avoids showing you how I feel about the fact that this is probably a message from Tesla'. Maybe she thought it would be a love note and wanted to make sure she could brush it off as 'that inventor guy' without having to explain to them it was Tesla? Anyway… I digress :D Tesla and Druitt will certainly be in this fic and have a pretty key role to play too, have no fear, but I want to build up to it properly so it has more impact. Trust me. It'll be worth it. :D The way those two play off each other is always fun. Thank you so much for being my only comment on this fic so far! It keeps me going.

Thanks also to our new faves and follows! :) Hope you keep enjoying it. Next time… Helen and Watson go cluing for looks.


	4. Chapter 4 - Apache

The morning was grey and overcast, turning to showers by the time they'd had breakfast at the Inn. James drove them in the green Morris Minor back towards the sea, radio tuned into Housewives Choice on the BBC. To Helen's surprise the presenter wasn't completely patronising – a wonder, considering the music was all deemed appropriate for cleaning the shelves to, or cooking breakfast for your little darlings. Doris Day or Frank Sinatra – neither seemed to really register with James who was, as ever, focused fully on his very cautious driving. Otherwise she might've fancied he'd be keeping himself from humming along.

Helen, on the other hand, attempted not to wring her hands, or press her feet onto an invisible gas pedal. She smiled politely when he happened to glance her way with some assurance-seeking comment – tried desperately to focus on the stunning Cornish landscape, wrapped in mist and low-lying cloud, or the music – but by God if she'd been insured she would've _demanded_ the keys.

In fact, when he'd written to her that he'd not only taken his driving test, but _passed_, she'd had the first true shock in about a decade. Even back in the 1880s Watson had never taken to vehicles: being a passenger, fine, but _driving_ a carriage? He couldn't even handle a cart and donkey, and don't even start on actually riding a horse! The man was a product of the Age of Steam: a buyer of train tickets, an urban dweller used to cabs and being able to walk everywhere within a five mile radius.

She chuckled to herself, remembering their expedition in Africa, the journey across that gorge… James had given the packhorse such a dirty look. Trying to stifle her mirth behind the back of her hand, she realised he was looking at her out of the corner of his eye, curious, silently querying the laughter that had escaped her lips.

Shaking her head before he could even ask she responded, "It's nothing."

"Really?" His eyebrow arched, "It seemed rather amusing for nothing."

She knew that tone… the tinge of self-consciousness, the wariness within the irony, that there was something he'd missed. He hated it, even if he could rationalise to himself that it wasn't important. For a genius, sometimes he was such a silly man. Her warm smile only grew.

"Just a trip down memory lane…" she dismissed breezily, "oh, you need to take the next right."

As designated navigator, she had the map on her legs, along with the address of Chez Griffin. They were the other side of the village to the church they went to yesterday, where the cliff-edge descended towards a crescent of soft sand. Rocky outcrops reached out like fingers either side of the settlement, dipping into the sea and creating natural breaks that sheltered the once-fisherman's cove. There were few fishermen working here now – they all harboured in the towns.

"Memory lane?" Watson asked as he took the turning.

Helen watched him closely, "Yes I…" she smiled again at the foolishness of her hesitation, "second left – I was reminded of your pack horse incident. In Africa."

"Oh indeed?" He smiled wryly, remembering that insolent animal all too well – how it had bucked him, and carried him off into the middle of a local tribe, traipsing all over their crops. Dear God that was such a mess, "And, what the devil reminded you of that in the middle of _Cornwall_?"

When she didn't respond he glanced her way more fully, and her smile had that mocking mischief to it that had never failed to keep him by her side. He sighed, knowing full well that it was probably a backward comment on his driving.

"It should be down here," Helen pretended to concentrate on her task, that cheeky smile unrelenting, "on the right." Backing onto the shore, against the few boats tied to the garden walls.

"Yes, well…" Watson continued, pulling up in front, "thank God for cars, is all I can say."

Helen looked to him with a smile then, feeling just a little sorry for teasing him, and entirely incapable of not wincing as he ground the gears, causing the most horrific noise as he brought the car to a stop.

"Not a word," he added quickly, the corners of his lips turning upwards at whatever she'd been about to say.

She was pressing her lips together to stop herself, all but grinning as she shook her head – silently protesting that the thought hadn't even crossed her mind. Then she cast her eyes out of his window, and her face fell a little, into something soft and compassionate.

"Shall we?"

He sighed again, picking up on the sobering shift in tone and remembering all-too-clearly why they'd come here, "Let's."

They got out simultaneously, letting the doors shut firmly behind them in the exceedingly quiet street. The only sound was from the waves lapping upon the shore with vigour, the seagulls floating in the salty air, drifting in the wind as it dragged the clouds further in land.

The rest of the village was perched in two rows of grey-stoned terraces above them, but on this row, slightly raised above the waterline, there were more modern homes. Some were detached, some semi-detached, with a small line of houses on the opposite side of the road that looked closer in age to the ones up hill – designed in a time when man still feared the elements, and struggled to keep himself warm.

Not so Griffin's house. It was a modern build – friendly and cheerful to look at. A dormer window indicated the existence of an upper floor in the attic, but it was essentially a bungalow. The front door, cottage like, against the cream-stuccoed walls, was painted duck-egg blue. There was a little portal window near it, from which anyone inside could see the driveway to the green garage door and front garden. A garden heaving with palms and shrubs, flower beds which would surely overflow in the summer. Nigel had kept it well tended. All the smaller palms were wrapped up for the winter, just in case a frost should strike, the lawn mown in perfect stripes. _Despite_ the modernity, it seemed… very Griffin. James could almost see his friend, growing green-fingered with a new streak of white in his ever-thinning hair, swigging a bottle as the football blared on the radio in the sun. He surveyed the street, the narrowness of the lane – just enough for two cars abreast – the cottages immediately opposite, with their delicate net curtains. Aside from those few residences he was hardly overlooked – everyone's front gardens were full of greenery, their fences high enough for some privacy.

Helen headed straight for the front door.

"You won't get an answer," James concluded, noting the fresh trail of polluted water that had leaked out of an exhaust in the frigid morning air. Leading from the garage and out the drive way.

Helen whipped back round to him, following his eyes, before reaching for the door-knocker anyway. "Probably not," she agreed, watching as he lifted the unlocked garage door, verifying the absence of their car before taking a quick look around. "Seems rude not to at least knock before breaking in though."

"Hmm," he dusted his hands from the garage door after closing it, catching a flutter in the corner of his eye, across the street. Straightening somewhat, he spoke loud enough to be over-heard, "perhaps we better see if they're round the back?"

She gave him a questioning tilt of her head, but nodded, following him round the side and into the back garden. The view was stunning – especially as the clouds parted. A modest garden but pretty, even in winter: heather in the rockery, more leafy palms – a patio, big enough for entertaining on, with vines growing up a wooden awning in a very Mediterranean way. The lawn went right up to the rocks and then… the sea. On a quiet evening it would've felt like they were completely alone – just the three of them, in their own little sanctuary.

Magnus was so caught up in the sight James had already located the spare key. Not under the rug, or potted plants, but in a secret compartment in the base of a little statue: a jolly Buddha. From Nigel's jaunt in China no doubt. It seemed quite incongruous in the otherwise notably Western garden.

They opened the back door into the Kitchen, a big open-plan affair which was clearly Jeanette's domain. Onions and garlic hung in the French style, the new cooker a powdery blue that matched the blue, cream and brown colour-scheme. A little ceramic bulldog and chicken sat side-by-side on the large window looking out upon the Cornish coast, garish little things Nigel had probably picked out at some Village Bric-a-Brac. The radio, James noted, was tuned into a French station, picked up from the other side of the channel.

Everything was neat and tidy, just as one might expect after a weekly house clean, but – he checked the taps – the water was still on, the electricity too – the fridge was still working. He opened it up – a little bare of food but there was still some there, and four bottles of lager… he picked one out, eying it for any tampering as Helen passed in his peripherals.

"Jeanette?" she called out, moving into the lounge. "Anna?"

"Really Helen, they're not here," James repeated, calling out from the kitchen. There was a clatter, the fridge door closed, then, "there's not any bread. What self-respecting Frenchwoman doesn't have fresh bread in her larder by mid-morning?"

Helen knew he was right, the house had an empty atmosphere despite the fact that everything was there, just as they'd left it. Just as Nigel would've left it…

Jeanette didn't make idle threats or promises. She had held to her word. The car was gone. Even so, part of Magnus hoped to find some kind of sign that they weren't gone just yet – that they'd gone out for supplies or… _something_.

Instead, she found herself moving from room to room like a shade: her glazed eyes picking up on each memento, every hint, of the couple she'd known. Old photographs of Jeanette's family, a painting of… was that Carentan? She smiled nostalgically, noting the ugly African drinking vessel the witchdoctor had given Nigel when they'd gone to help a tribe of abnormals in the Congo. The rugby trophy from the College-Cup… oh goodness, she hadn't seen that statue of Anubis since the 20's… and was that... she picked up the signed first edition of HG Wells' _The Invisible Man_ from the bookshelf. '_To my invisible muse. HG_': Nigel had told the writer off for being such a wet blanket over that dedication – and oh, how Wells had laughed at that.

Helen could feel her eyes growing damp, a choke in her throat, and quickly put the book back before she got too emotional. Straightening her pencil skirt she carried on looking, finding Anna's room. It was a sweet home for his little princess: pink and white walls, hand-drawn pictures littering the doors of cupboards and cabinets. Open – empty. If ever there was confirmation… this was it. Barely any clothes on their hangers, empty draws, no underwear. Her toys were still here apparently: a little doll's house in the corner, where the father was stood completely undressed, as if such a thing was entirely normal. Helen smirked a little. Some things never changed, it seemed.

Upstairs, in Nigel and Jeanette's room, it was the same story. Behind every door, every draw, there was barely anything of Jeanette left. As if _she_'d left him – not the other way around. All her jewellery was gone from her dresser, hairbrush – perfume. Yet the coverlet was still on the double bed, the washing in the basket.

Back in the living room she found James stood next to the record player, looking surreptitiously through the gauze of the net curtains, deep in thought. She came to stand next to him, noting the record on the turntable – Apache. So Griffin was a fan of The Shadows?

Helen found her fingers absently tracing the vinyl, the music her friend would never hear again. She was finding it very hard to focus on why they'd come here… why they were walking amongst ghosts and memories, and things they never even knew. Frankly, Helen didn't have a clue what she _should_ be feeling, how she should be dealing with this unnerving… space in her head. Even at 111 years old.

Taking a shaky breath she composed herself, before James realised something was wrong and again, gave her that awkward concern. The care and consideration she didn't want to face.

The sound turned his head alright, but he held back from the obvious question, noting the rigid set to her mouth, "I think we'd better pop across the street for a cup of sugar."

Helen started at the odd assertion, following his gaze across the street and catching sight of the lace curtains opposite shutting rather suddenly. Ah… it seemed the Griffin's had a nosy neighbour.

0

The woman who answered the door opposite was short; her permed and set hair a shocking white that Father Christmas might envy. She was slight – clothes which looked as if they'd been bought with ration coupons twenty years ago, hanging on a frame which had since shrunk and hunched over with age. Her green eyes immediately widened at the sight of them, momentarily startled at the thought of having been discovered for the busy-body she was, but she covered it well.

"Yes?" she asked in a soft Cornish burr, "Can I 'elp you?"

Helen and James smiled charmingly in return.

"Well, perhaps, you might," Magnus tried, "how long have you lived here?"

"Ooo, forever deary. I've reared eight children within these very walls."

"So might you know the family who lives across from you, the Griffins?"

She eyed Helen more warily, paying more attention to the silent gentleman at her left, and hugging closer to the open door. "Well I _did_, know 'em 'course… it's a small village. But… Mr Griffin passed 'way a few days ago y' see."

"Oh," Helen looked to James, creating the illusion that this news somehow impacted upon their plans.

"We don't mean to pry Mrs…"

"Gloyne."

"Mrs Gloyne – Dr James Watson," he offered, holding out his hand to her and shaking it gently, "This is my friend and colleague, Dr Helen Magnus."

"O," she gave a brittle smile, accepting Helen's hand with a little hesitation at the thought of a female doctor, "nice to meet you I'm sure."

"And you Mrs Gloyne."

"Only," James continued, "Mrs Griffin doesn't seem to be answering the door…"

"An' nor will she," Mrs Gloyne responded with a huff, her inner gossip slipping out into the open.

"I'm sorry?"

Mrs Gloyne shook her head slightly, throwing up her hands, "No, no I shan't speak ill of… but…" she caught his eye like some old storyteller, so very pleased to finally have a willing audience for her tales. She leant closer, the smell of menthe wafting towards them as she peered either side of her door, "between you and me… I think she's scarper'd back to where she came from."

Helen couldn't help the slight disapproval creeping into her narrowed eyes, but she did her best to conceal it as confusion, "Back to France?"

"Aye," she nodded as if it were simple.

"Mrs Gloyne…" James hazarded with that charm of his, "perhaps, you might tell us what happened?"

She thought about it for a moment, as if wrestling between the safety of closing her doors on total strangers, or the chance to have some actual, _human_, company. "Are you… with the police? She in some sort o' trouble?"

The two doctors looked to each other. "Not exactly Mrs Gloyne," Helen responded, trying to avoid out-and-out lies, "it might be best if we explained inside."

"O? I see," she nodded sagely, pressing her lips together excitedly as she started to believe she had pieced this all together, "very well, yes – you can count on my discretion."

They smiled back reassuringly, awaiting her invitation.

"Right you are, yes, best come in – never know who's listenin' in with all those commies about. Careless talk an' all… would you like a cup of tea?"

0

Mrs Gloyne's sitting room was small and snug. Crisp white nets hung in the windows, and pale pristine cushions sat on the thread-bare sofa that remained well tended, despite having seen better years. Her china set was just as delicate as the flowers hand stitched into the throw covering the back of the sofa, and it too caught that bright, West Country light starting to break through the clouds. Like the thin skin of a pixie's wings.

"Such a shame…" she continued eagerly over her freshly poured tea, "for the littl'un _most_ of all. Her mother's a queer one, I must say. Runnin' off no sooner she buried her 'usband…" she scowled, shaking her head in disapproval, "As if she couldn't _stand_ the place. At the time, o' course, I thought to myself, _typical French – never good enough for 'em. No matter 'ow nice y'are to 'em. They just don't want to know_."

James was eying Helen with renewed vindication – it appeared they had an eyewitness to Jeanette's hasty exit. "Running?" he asked gently, barely raising his own cup to his lips where he stood, half-turned towards the very window he'd caught Mrs Gloyne peeking out of earlier.

"O, ar!" She seemed to shake herself slightly, "Out the door like a shot in the wee hours. I couldn't sleep see, an' then I 'eard this car start up, and I thought – who on Earth's going out at this 'our?" She gazed at them disapprovingly, "They look'd in an awful 'urry. Suitcases an' everythin'… An' then you two _doctors_ show up lookin' for 'em. And you're _sure_ she's not in some sort o' trouble?"

Helen couldn't help glancing up to him from her spot on the sofa: it wasn't a question borne of genuine concern, but of opportunistic venom. She could tell from the old woman's tone: she wanted to be the one in the know, to be at the heart of the gossip network which judged and extradited people like Jeanette – the outsiders – given half the chance. Magnus knew her kind. The sort of viper which everyone mistook for the sweet old biddy on the corner, never suspecting that she was silently cataloguing every social foible, every indicator that perhaps you didn't meet her cookie-cutter expectations of how village life in a Cornish village should be – white-bread and God-fearing, where women and children knew their place. The sort of woman that made her power plays in little, vicious ways – petty village politics that made people's lives a living hell. The very thought made Magnus' skin itch, "Not with us Mrs Gloyne," she reiterated with a short smile, hiding her own sense of harassment.

"And we were the first people to arrive today?" Watson asked, "After they'd left?"

Mrs Gloyne looked back to him, clearly distracted by that nagging unanswered question of _who_ they were, "Aye… as it happens."

"You didn't seem particularly surprised that we were asking after them," James noted, "poking around in the garage."

"Well I figur'd you were the police or... I weren't surprised – way she shot out of there. _Guiltily_."

"What are you trying to imply Mrs Gloyne?" Helen enquired as neutrally as humanly possible.

Mrs Gloyne frowned as if she could only _be_ implying one thing, "Only that… well… I mean… it's not the first time you types have been 'round 'ere is it?"

They gave her only enquiring expressions, eyebrows deliberately arched to make her second guess herself.

"_Secret services_… I thought… I mean…" she glanced nervously about, realising just how out of her depth she was paddling, "that they might've been… _KGB_," she whispered, far too excited by the prospect, "so I've been keepin' an eye on 'em for y'! That's what I thought yer fellow was doin' 'ere the other day."

If this had been about anyone else – anybody – she would've sounded veritably insane. Instead, James' eyes narrowed instantly, "Mrs Gloyne, this is very important." He put his cup down on the table, straightening himself back up and meeting the old lady's eye, watching her closely, "what did you see?"

Mrs Gloyne grew suddenly very anxious, her cup shaking slightly as she realised what she'd just done – admitted to having witnessed a secret operation? Oh goodness. They were going to lock her away… if she was lucky.

"Mrs Gloyne," Helen reassured, noting quickly the panic rising in her wrinkled features, the almost childish expression unique to the old and vulnerable. She reached across and took the woman gently by the wrist, surreptitiously measuring her pulse, the tone of her voice calming and soft, "it's alright. You're a…" she couldn't believe she was going to say this, "a loyal British citizen. We're here to protect you."

God, Magnus thought to herself, if this woman had _any_ idea how the Secret Services actually worked, she wouldn't have been reassured by such platitudes. Luckily, the common preconception of spies at the moment was dominated by the novels of Mr Ian Fleming, and _not_ the classified dossiers of World War Two. It must have been very exciting for Mrs Gloyne, believing she had a foreign agent across the street all this time… and she wasn't too far from the truth either. He had, after all, been employed as such for the larger part of both World Wars.

The old lady nodded, finding the strength to look back at Watson without panicking, "O', of course," she agreed, looking suddenly a lot frailer.

"What did you see?" James cajoled, gentler than before.

"I… well, Mr Griffin was gardenin'," she became more sure of herself as she regaled them, "always kept his garden lookin' _lovely_ he did – one of the reasons I didn't suspect 'em for so long. I'd see 'im out there all the time, minute the sun was out, even in winter. Sometimes his little girl playin' 'opscotch on the lane… only she wasn't this time. Then this man shows up – in a fine suit he was – an' Mr Griffin didn't seem very pleased to see 'im. They started arguin' 'bout somethin'. He was pretty angry, I'm surprised Mr Griffin never broke the man's nose, but they didn't come to blows. Actually," she squinted as if remembering, "it wasn't far off the same spot where the poor man had 'is 'art attack…" there was a slow realisation in the old woman's face, "Say… he wasn't… wasn't _bumped off_, was he?" The barest hint of delight in her face at the drama unfolding in her imagination was uncomfortable for his oldest friends to swallow, to say the least.

"That's what we're here to find out Mrs Gloyne," Helen ventured sternly, getting her complete attention. "That's why we need your help – why we need you to keep _all of this_ a secret."

"Could you describe the man for us?"

"You mean he weren't one of yours?" she gasped, evidently thrilled at the thought, "O' Lor'."

"We just want to make sure we have our facts Mrs Gloyne," James over-rode before she ran away with any more theories.

"O I see," she nodded, "yes, well… okay, he was… em… maybe five foot nine, five foot ten just like my Reggie… fair 'air – blonde. He looked fit and able, but skinny, y' know, not like a sailor, or farm 'and… more like a... a runner. He was in black, with a winter coat… all very dapper lookin', he weren't lackin' fer money I'm sure."

"And did he have any scars, or distinctive features?"

"No… though. I can say he smoked. He lit up a cigarette right in front of Mr Griffin – threw the butt into the flower bed too when he left, I remember. Mr Griffin was as red as a tomato by that point."

Watson and Magnus looked to each other with the same thought... spies. It was always spies with Nigel – governments ever-hungry for their own invisible thief. With an abnormality like his, it was inevitable that he'd be pulled into the world of espionage. His skills were always in demand, but such employment had never sat easily with Griffin, not even in times of war. He'd often said he'd rather rob a bank than do some shadowy spy-master's dirty work, on the behest of politicians of dubious intent. Hadn't stopped them from trying to use him though, and, from time to time, succeeding.

Question was… what had they wanted with him this time?

**Author's Note**: Hmm, not entirely happy with this chapter, I feel as if the transition's a bit… rocky. Would appreciate some feedback on this one – maybe it's a symptom of wanting to get to Tesla's bit faster? :D It's kinda what happens when you're trying to lay down the logical foundations of a mystery story, but the mystery itself is not what's really holding your attention in the narrative – it's the characters working through it. I guess.

More cluing for looks next chapter.

**AConstanceC **– Thanks again for your encouragement :)


	5. Chapter 5 - Forensics

When they went back to Nigel's house James was restless. She could see the storm of thoughts, filling his muscles with the agitation of unanswered questions – the methodical processing of data and working theories leaving behind frustrating gaps he _needed_ to fill. No sooner had she closed the kitchen door behind them did he let it all come bubbling to the surface.

"Whatever they wanted from Nigel they might not have gotten it," he pointed out abruptly, stopping his pacing of the kitchen linoleum. He followed the path his eyes had instinctively marked out for him, setting off into the house with an impetus which hadn't been there before.

Helen had long-since learned to simply follow when the Great Detective was at work – there was no distracting him when he got like this, no discussion. She never even batted an eye, following him into the lounge as he picked up the telephone receiver, and promptly popped off the speakers on the handset.

He'd meant that the walls might still have ears. Sure enough, she watched him pluck out a shiny new miniature microphone and receiver from inside the otherwise harmless device – a phone tap.

Watson held it out towards her with a knowing look – it seemed Mrs Griffin's instincts had been correct. It also meant they couldn't risk another word about it until the entire house had been swept.

Helen took the device from his fingers, "I'll go make us a cup of tea darling."

James nodded succinctly at the code, trying to ignore the lurch of nostalgia at the sound of their pet soubriquet and diligently carrying on the search. She didn't seem to notice anyway, heading off to the kitchen and filling the kettle. That was the thing about surveillance devices… they tended not to work so well when submerged. Magnus dropped it into a jug of water, setting the kettle onto the hob and turning it on. The noise would be distracting once it reached boiling point, the steam-filled whistle piercing and unpleasant to whoever was sat on the other end of however many microphones were hidden here. It would do as a good cover whilst they hunted. As would the laid-back American-style guitars of The Shadows' _FBI_, floating from the record player James had switched on in the living room.

Silently, methodically, they started to turn the place over, looking everywhere: behind the paintings and photographs, the mirror, under the furniture. James fashioned an ad hoc detector out of the radio in the kitchen. It picked up bugs on the light fittings and even tucked into the skirting board. Removing each one in turn they put them into the jug – counting on the fact that their enemies wouldn't risk revealing themselves for the sake of a few bugs, and come knocking on their door. Not when they had probably already inferred that their targets had gone.

Magnus and Watson kept up occasional, idle conversation that acted as code, stopping only briefly for an actual cup of tea. Eventually, certain that the kitchen was clear, Helen popped her head into the hallway to see if James had finished Anna's bedroom.

"James-" she stopped in her tracks.

Nigel's coat and shoes were still at the door.

He'd been gone a week now – evidently Jeanette hadn't had the strength to clear out his stuff, or even pack it away.

Coming to rest lightly against the bannister, Magnus watched James brushing Nigel's coat out of the way. He bent down to eye the collection of footwear lined neatly together like a hawk. It was strange… she could remember a time when that move had more finesse to it, when he would have squatted right down on his surprisingly athletic haunches to get as close as possible to his clues – in situ. A sign of his age, that the discomfort in doing so today was not worth the pride of being able to do the things he could fifty years ago.

James had obviously come to some kind of unvoiced deduction – otherwise the shoes wouldn't have become such a focus of enquiry. Silently he catalogued them: the pair of Wellington Boots nearest the door, the soft comfortable slippers, the Sunday bests, the work-a-day loafers of a school teacher – perfectly shined for the Monday return to school – the second pair… he reached to pick them up, lifting to study them in their entirety.

"Now, why would you need these old chap? Hmm?"

He didn't see Helen's silent, slightly lost-looking query, but he knew instinctively that it was there. That she had relinquished her hold on the bannister and straightened to attention in a bout of expectant intrigue, brushing down her skirt as she did so.

"All the other shoes here have an obvious purpose, they're kept neat and tidy – except these." He turned them on their side, inspecting the bottoms and frowning, picking at the sticky substance, "Gum, dirt, scuff marks from rubber and…" he frowned at the sides, noting a mark that looked a lot more industrial than one might expect for a coastal village. He dared a sniff, but there was only one overwhelming smell other than leather and feet – "alcohol. Look at the dirt," he picked a little off, presenting it to her.

"Grit and cement dust…" Helen looked to him, "a construction site?"

"Hmm," it was an inconclusive sound. He looked back at the inside of the shoe – they were old. Brought out of a cupboard at some point, brought _back_ into use, "Wherever it was, it wasn't the garden, or a local pub… or a walk along the coast. Or a boat trip," he added as an afterthought. He put them back down, but Helen got the sense that it was merely a temporary arrangement, "I'll need to get them back to the lab," he continued, whilst searching the pockets of Griffin's coat. "Find out where he's been."

"You think he was working for them."

Watson locked eyes with her then, the crossed arms indicating her discomfort with the notion. The way she held herself back.

"Perhaps – conned, cajoled… blackmailed," he replied authoritatively, removing his hands now that he hadn't found anything, "it would've hardly been the first time."

She nodded resignedly, seeing his train of thought, "Otherwise what reason would they have to eliminate him?"

"Precisely. He must have found something important enough to…" the strength of his voice faltered a little and he blinked away that uncomfortable dampness in his eyes as privately as he could, "kill for." Having avoided tears, he looked around them with greater confidence, "So either he was working for them, or he'd been back to his old tricks and happened upon something he shouldn't have… which, given his family… his comfortable life style…"

"Seems unlikely," Helen finished. It sent a chill down her spine. Her friend's life reduced to a simple calculation. Whether or not he was useful, or a threat.

James started up the stairs, surprisingly fluidly considering his limp, and she followed only belatedly, back into the Griffins' bedroom. James was already in the half-empty wardrobe, rifling through the hangers. She knew what he was doing: assessing the shirts, trousers and jackets for anything that looked out of place. Hunting for the remaining bugs and__the sort of attire they were all-too used to seeing on Nigel in times of war. Boiler suits, casual work-men's garb that could be easily discarded, abandoned in a pinch for his invisible skin. Helen started helping, checking the draws methodically one by one, trying to ignore the fact that she was going through one of her best friends' underwear. There had to be something, and so they looked. Combing each cupboard and draw with forensic attentiveness, testing for false bottoms and hidden compartments in the furniture, before placing everything back exactly where it had been. As if the Griffins would be coming back for it sometime.

About an hour into their search, and the detector giving no further sign of any wires in the room, Watson halted with a sudden realisation, "No."

Helen stopped rooting through the penultimate draw on the bedside table and turned.

"It was a recent change…" James started moving towards the large wicker basket in the far corner, lifting the lid on the pile of dirty washing and turning his head with an arch twist to his brow. If Helen didn't know any better she'd say he was being squeamish, or a prude, but there was something intrinsically invasive about all this which was uncomfortable for them both.

"Time to air the dirty laundry?" She pulled a sad, ironic smile.

He twisted to meet her eye with the barest hint of amusement, "Literally," he agreed, before gazing back into the heap of clothes with determination. "Sorry old chap."

"Oh," Helen chided, coming over to join him, "as if he would've had any pride about this kind of thing."

They glanced at each other, sharing a melancholy smile that held all those pleasant memories of their ribald friend. Always so comfortable in his own skin, so unafraid of cracking undignified jokes to see a smile: it's why "Society" had hated him so. The Oxford gents with their clubs and soirees. Griffin had always down-played his own intelligence, hated to be the one elevated above others, but there was a reason he'd been allowed to remain within those hallowed halls – and to Helen's mind, to James', it was the right one. The man had been a genius in his own field. A great forgotten mind – intelligent, diligent, driven, creative – steamrollered and forgotten by the establishment out of a mix of academic greed, snobbery, and his own '_life's too short_' attitude. Helen supposed she understood why he'd stepped back, retreated from the field once John's betrayal had simmered over, once he had control of his abilities and the chance to return. They'd all changed by then. Irrevocably so.

Their thoughts weighed heavy, the bitter-sweet joy disintegrating. James turned back to the task, rooting through item by item until, at the bottom – an old navy boiler suit emerged. He pulled it out with a sharp frown.

"Notice anything odd?" James hazarded proudly.

"Jeanette wouldn't have left something _that_ dirty in the bottom of a laundry basket if she'd known about it. It would've gone straight into a soak."

"That too. Look at the grease marks."

"They've never been anywhere near an engine…" Helen surmised, "or even a tool shed – the wrong kind of dirt, wrong patterns."

"True, but look-"

James pointed out on one corner, the upper leg. A mark purposefully put on – too neat, too deliberate to be the result of actual work or a haphazard wiping of hands. It was the swipe of the flat of some knife, making a 'Σ' – the kind of sign only James, or maybe Helen, would notice.

"Looks like a Greek Sigma," though why he'd marked his clothes with that particular letter Helen wasn't sure. It was a common enough Mathematical symbol, it represented the summation of an equation, but apart from that it didn't mean anything to them specifically. She looked to James, confused as to what it might mean, "A message?"

"More of a sign post – I'd be intrigued to know _what_ he made it with."

Now that he mentioned it, those marks looked distinctly reddish… as if the grease had been mixed with blood.

James began hunting for a bag of some description, picking up the boiler suit and taking it downstairs to the kitchen where there was an old brown paper bag from Jeanette's grocery shopping. Grabbing the suspicious pair of shoes as he went, he bagged the items up as evidence – the beer bottles could go in there too, when he found them.

Helen was looking at him with concern as he carefully folded the blue fabric, "It's his kit, James." His thieving kit. He _had_ been back in the game.

Watson looked to her sombrely, thoughtfully. "Our well-dressed agent was, I think, trying to get something back – something they had come to Nigel specifically in order to obtain."

Clearly neither Nigel, nor his adversaries had wanted Jeanette to know what was going on – taking pains to keep it all hush, hush: keep her in the dark. So for them to come into the open like that, send an agent to take a prod at Nigel on his own front lawn meant they wanted something – badly. Something so important that they'd gone to the effort of coercing Nigel into their service in the first place.

"And he didn't hand it over," Helen concluded.

James nodded, "You don't kill someone as useful as Nigel – not unless all attempts to manipulate him have failed and he's threatening you. Using your own secrets against you… endangering your plans."

"Right, but if they're after Jeanette then they haven't found it." Helen reasoned aloud, "So he must have hidden it somewhere."

Watson narrowed his eyes again, casting them about as he nodded distractedly in agreement, "But where?"

0

They'd been here so long it was dark. James was sat on Nigel's armchair, parked immediately next to the radio – it _had_ to be Nigel's chair – his fingers arched together as he entered that meditative state.

Helen sighed, looking out the kitchen window into the inky darkness, seeing more of herself – weary, in need of a good sleep, as usual – than the stars in the reflection. She'd already suggested they stay here overnight. She could take little Anna's room, James could… well, rest wherever he felt most comfortable. He hadn't objected to the suggestion – indeed, he hadn't said anything at all. He was too engrossed in his own thoughts, processing. Like a great chess master working out his next move. Busy playing out all the logical scenarios in his head from the facts presented, and deduced.

For the first hour or so he'd gotten up from time to time to verify something, but now he'd settled into the long-haul. Facts that could only be ascertained outside of the crime scene, theorems that would, perhaps, require a plan to reveal. He wouldn't move, wouldn't talk about it, and all their things were still in the car.

She'd had to remind him to start the filter on his machine and, in lieu of any nearby take-away restaurants, even attempted to cook dinner. Helen had never been a brilliant chef. Competent enough not to burn things, but in all honesty she just never had the time to learn. Baking was an entirely different matter, but the first time she'd had to cook herself a meal outside of some kind of camp situation, there'd been rationing.

When she'd moved to Old City she'd tried – she'd even mastered gravy for her meat and two veg – but she had never been so thankful than the day the warm-hearted Sasquatch who'd been brought bleeding to her door, had offered to make her a _real_ dinner. His Sunday roasts were to die for, but more than that, she had come to rely upon him greatly. God, ten years flew by so fast, and in that time her Old Friend had made the Sanctuary just as much of a home as the London branch had ever been.

Turning off the tap currently rinsing out the pan, Helen turned to pick up what paltry excuse for a dinner she'd concocted and headed into the living room. Once his taste buds had been offended James wouldn't be able to stop talking about his thought processes. She planted one of the plates in front of him, on a small side table, and simply waited until surprise lit his face. The way the smell of food dragged him out of his internal world, back into this one – reminding him of his empty stomach. The way his discerning eye sceptically scanned for signs that the food presented to him was in fact edible. She sat across from him on the edge of the sofa, her back straight as ever, balancing her plate atop her knees as she started to redress her own dwindling energy levels.

"Thank you," Watson offered belatedly, taking the first tentative steps to taking a bite.

Blowing the heat from the food on her first forkful, she looked at him with that smile, "Don't thank me yet, I have no idea how it tastes."

He waited then, watching her chew and swallow the little bundle of food down with a studiously neutral expression. "And?" he cajoled after her extended silence, awaiting the taste report.

She looked up from her second bite, a mysterious smirk that told him to try it himself. With a light sigh he acquiesced, and though it wasn't… terrible, it was probably the blandest sauce he'd ever tasted. He unconsciously pulled a face and she laughed.

"Marks out of ten?" she asked.

He cleared his palette before speaking, "A generous five. Better than the last thing you attempted to cook for me." How anyone could mess up a simple cheese sauce, he'd never know, but somehow Dr Helen Magnus had managed it.

"Well the ingredients were somewhat limited."

As she ate Helen let her eyes rove over the few items he had collected around him – like extensions of his mind-map, there to help him see the way. An address on a slip of paper, rescued from the rubbish, Nigel's diary. The empty beer bottles, the full ones too, they all sat alongside Nigel's bagged-up kit, along with the jug of drowning microphones. They had searched the house and garden for several hours, looking for what he might've stolen, or some clue as to where it might be – searching for some kind of microfilm, or artefact, buried treasure: to no avail. Nigel had been diligent, careful to keep his family out of it. It seemed plain enough to both of them that he'd hidden it as far away from his wife and child as he could. No doubt hoping to avoid them getting dragged into all this… all for nothing, it seemed.

"So…" Helen broached, "theories?"

He swallowed his mouthful, considering his reply, "Well, it's hard to say without knowing who this organisation is, or the nature of what's been stolen, as to where Nigel's hidden this… mystery item."

"No more clues on the agents then?"

"No," he breathed his frustration in deeply, "last year's calendar's already made it to the rubbish dump it would seem, and the diary's almost empty – purely academic: teacher-parent meetings, exams and the like. This address is in Nigel's hand but it's local. We should check it out tomorrow on the way home to be sure-"

"But you're not convinced it's of any importance?"

"It would've been rather sloppy of Nigel if it was."

Helen made a 'Hmm' of understanding as she finished another mouthful.

"No," he continued measuredly, "the only hint in the diary is a date about a month ago… a conference. In London."

"And he never came round to say hello?"

"God no, hadn't seen a peep of him since he'd moved here."

"So… a cover."

"Well the conference occurred, I found the leaflet – whether Nigel attended it or not is another matter."

"Alright, so if he was in London a month or so ago… is that where he found it? Hid it?"

"I suspect so. It could've been Oxford… it's an easy distance to cover, especially en route from London, and there's plenty of hiding slots in those old halls. I know Nigel's used them before – but the further one travels with these things-"

"The more dangerous."

Watson nodded succinctly, "The only thing I'm sure of is that it will be a place he knew _we_ would look. That symbol on his boiler suit was left for us."

Not Jeanette. Not the police. Not the people who killed him. Somewhere only The Five would think to go.

"Like Oxford or…" he paused, suddenly very wary and subdued, and Helen knew precisely what he was going to say before he even uttered the word, "_Whitechapel_."

Nigel had never spoken of it. Ever. Not the detail – only the facts. The fact that one of his best friends had been the bloody killer that had terrorised London; that it was the price they had paid for their naivety, their innocent pursuit of knowledge. Jeanette would know the identity and temperament of the most notorious serial killer in history, that he had posed as a Nazi – but not how it had happened. She would know how deeply it had scarred Nigel, moulded him, but would not know it as who he was now. She hadn't been there. How could she? Why would she even think about it?

There was something off about this. If Nigel was leaving a trail only she and Watson could follow, protecting some secret only they could find… Helen's instincts were ringing.

"Was he protecting them, do you think?"

James focused on her suddenly, "Hmm?"

"Jeanette and Anna. Do you think he was protecting them… or just didn't want this to get into the wrong hands?"

James looked into her concerned eyes, reading quickly what conclusion she'd reached – he'd reached it long ago. That whatever secret Nigel had given his life to protect was most likely abnormal in nature: "Almost certainly both."

**Author's Note**: OMG life has been… up and down. Some really good stuff, and some really bad stuff have conspired to keep me so busy and/or exhausted I couldn't write :( :) but I am still alive I swear and I have no intention of leaving this unfinished. It just might take me a while.

The good news is the next chapter we get Nikola and John! :D YAY!

**AConstanceC** - :) thank you! Sorry I didn't update very soon :( glad you liked the house, it was fun trying to imagine it

**JanSuch** – good tip, problem is how do I describe it without giving too much away? You know when you know what's going on but you're not sure whether you're giving too much out at once and people can tell way too early? Yeah… and as promised, Tesla in next chapter ;)

Hope y'all continue to enjoy!


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